


Dark Sensations

by Ms_Peony_May



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apprentice Harry Potter, Dark, Dark Arts, Dark Harry, Dark Magic, Dark Past, Elemental Magic, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), Mild Humor, Multi, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Rituals, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29202681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Peony_May/pseuds/Ms_Peony_May
Summary: Harry is ordered to take up an apprenticeship to learn the Dark Arts. He learns, with enthusiasm, but with Lucius Malfoy as your Master it's hard to keep it limited to magic.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. Of Waltz and Quality Robes

Wearing a deep blue wizarding suit of satin and wool, that not even the best of Madam Malkin’s could compare to, Lord Malfoy stood with the most charming smile on the first step of the staircase looking slightly down at his guests. Chatting idly about politics and encouraging gossip to run the game of the rich. The sight was the exemplar of a true Malfoy man. A Lord with power only acquired through correct lies and gold. 

It was surprising, however, that he stood only slightly above his peers. After all, it was to be expected of him to stand at the balcony above them all and look at who talked with whom with curious eyes. Perhaps he’d become humble, during his days incarcerated in Azkaban, no matter that his stay there was short lived. All the same, Harry needn’t think of it much, because it was of utmost importance that he greet the man and play by the rules of their language to convince him to become his teacher in Dark Arts. 

Harry had to choose a good moment for such a daunting task. He predicted a quick dismissal, if he was lucky. A few or more words of humiliation and embarrassment on his part, if he was not. Although, he hoped that Merlin would help him from above, because hasn’t he suffered enough through the unusual but concentrated wickedness of high society? 

When the Minister approached him with an offer for a prestigious position within the ministry that was, to his utter bewilderment, created specially for him, he shook his slightly moist palm with Mr. Shacklebolt and accepted the offer with a smile that made his cheeks ache. He ran through the frosted streets towards Grimmauld on Islington Street, catching his breath on the cold air, by which point not only his cheeks were in pain, but lungs and feet. 

The day turned to be one of his monumental, for no longer having to worry about his choice between Auror, Wand-maker or Undersecretary. He got many other offers, but having to think through all of the options when he hadn't thought he’d live through his teens, and write out dozens of replies to thoroughly thank every shopkeeper, artisans or members of the ministry for their generosity to employ a boy who just about left the frontline and graduated with barely acceptable marks, that is, for a saviour whose face always graced the morning newspaper without a miss, was daunting enough without the declination with which he finished his letters. 

What his dear friend offered him was more than perfect. As a Master of Death, he trained under Unspeakables under a vow of secrecy and he could only straighten his spine into an iron rod with the memories that couple of years brought forth. Despite the many physically exhausting tasks which made his mind weary due to sleepless nights caused by stabs of pins and daggers of his muscles, facing another - powerful - horcrux was an emotional challenge he took several glasses of fire-whiskey and burning of his throat and vomit in the morning to overcome. 

Despite some of his miserable adventures, he took pleasure in most of his other work and learning. It’s been a wonderful routine of drunken Sundays with his mates, breakfast of coffee and delicious bacon and eggs on his busy week-days and travelling accommodations in five star wizarding hotels and pubs alike The Leaky in different parts of British Isles - for work, of course - and wicked sex with his old school mates, because he didn’t trust strangers for avoidance of gracing more than the front page with his face and private endeavours. He’d had enough of suing The Daily Prophet every Monday morning. It had become a routine which made him seek rough, angry sex until he realised he should probably deal with this issue when Theo left with long hurried strides which cracked the wooden floor of his apartment. Not to mention the howler that burst through his mail slot a mere hours later. 

Overall, he lived a very good life as Harry Potter, until his twenty-third birthday. When the same Mr. Shacklebolt that had given him this post-war life of luxury came striding with a flourish of his bright violet robes and a discreet pin on his upper right lapel with a glamorous letter _M_ that caught the sunlight of his room, at which Harry looked with a frown followed by a slight raised brow at his face when he realised this was official business. Belatedly remembering he was a host he hurried off the couch, bumping his leg in the process, to prepare some tea with scones he had baked the previous night. Of which most he sent to Theo with a long letter of apology, after looking through his attic to find a box of quality parchment and ink. 

“It’s nice to have you here, Minister, to what do I owe the pleasure of a personal visit?” Harry said, coming back with a tray of fine Black porcelain china for tea and snacks.

“Harry, my dear boy,” Harry noted how during his years of unique occupation under the Minister, he had rivalled Dumbledore and Sirius as a father figure. He looked at the man sitting in his “ _guest_ ” armchair next to the grand fireplace made of black marble, above which a portrait of one Orion Black looked down at him with a mixture of awkward smiles and grimaces, and gazed at the mixed expression he saw as his guest sipped his tea. Then putting it back on the round wooden table on his side and leaning forward, arms on the knees and all. “You’ve done a great job these years, but I’m afraid I will have to ask you for a favour, Harry, which I’m sure you will find to your taste, as I know how much you love to learn. Don’t you, Harry?” 

Harry knew, whatever that was coming would be a great evil to his daily routine he thought of as sanctuary. His back straight, abandoning his own cup of tea he gathered his wits. “Of course, training was most fun.” He made sure to lower his voice a bit, afraid sarcasm poisoned his tongue. With a cough, he tried to continue with the polite spewage of lies but was swiftly cut off.

“Fantastic! Harry, I’m happy to hear that, because the next cases are dark, very dark, indeed. I need you trained in all existing spheres of Dark Arts so I compiled a list of Masters you can apprentice under,” said the Minister a lot faster than his usual manner of speech, cracking the bones of his fingers. “I’m afraid there aren’t many who are proficient in Dark Arts, so calling this a list may be overdoing it,” he cackled under his breath, “...but I hope you will choose well.” With this, he hastily stood and reached into the inner pocket of his robes. Harry stood as well, brushing down his grey track trousers - new ones. He burned all that was Dursley. - and drying his sweaty palms with it, leaning forward to see the list in question.

“There you go, Harry, my boy, I will be off now. Busy day, you understand.`” A small scrap of parchment was passed and Harry opened it just as the air cracked with sudden disapparition. The tea was still hot. Eyes darting rapidly over the script, Harry swore as he saw the three names written in elegant scribble and stared daggers with feral passion. _Bloody_ _Merlin! This is mad!_

Gripping the paper tightly, he regretted offering his home-made scones. To hell with hospitality. The floorboards screached under his feet and curtains curled into themselves in fear of the head of house, as dust froze in the air not to anger the man further. The looming dark of the house never looked so in tune with Harry. The doors to his closet opened with a quiet creak before he reached his room and he pushed through the hangers, some flying off the rod, to find statement dress robes in burning red. 

Years of loyalty and he was betrayed by the man he regarded as a mentor. Muggle clothes flew off Harry with a twitch of his hand and the chosen robes wriggled in excitement and literal, burning passion. Wrapping around Harry with elegance and poise made to instil fear. The parchment unfolded itself and with another elaborate stamp of _M_ for the Ministry at the top, one would see three names below, the scribble as intimidating and irritating as the wizards themselves. And a post note Harry read again later with a scoff.

_Dolores Umbridge_

_Severus Snape_

_Lucius Malfoy_

_P.S I’m afraid there is no other alternative. Harry, consider this calmly, for the sake of the ministry and your job. I need a confirmation contract in a week's time._

“Umbridge?” Harry started at the name. “ _Umbridge?_ What is this mental degradation of humanity? _The world’s gone mad!_ ” 

Harry dropped on his bed, his robes flaming. Calm was necessary for clear thinking of his possible choices. He could leave England and head east, likely Bulgaria. Demand a sponsorship from Shacklebolt and rent a room from Krum for a year. And how fun that would be! Except Krum was now married to a beautiful Russian woman who displayed as much poise and passion as Krum and he didn’t want to impose. And sacrifice his sanctuous routine to look after their year old baby that woke them up at night and demanded warm embrace of her mother. Body limp and resting on his sheets, he thought. Long time spent thinking as to regret the passing of hours which could be filled with other useful tasks instead.

“Well then,” he sighed aloud and sat up. His robes were burgundy and quieter in their ardor.

After a ridiculously simple process of elimination and a door slamming in his face, echoing through Spinner’s End, his last choice and hope fell onto Lord Lucius Malfoy, who was hosting a quarterly ball in the name of ‘donations’ and ‘saving face’, to Harry's extensive luck, in days time at Malfoy Manor, to which he was invited, of course. Because Harry Potter was invited to all the parties and galas, no matter whether he was sincerely welcome or not. Pleasantry was the number one rule in the rulebook of high society, after all. He dug through his box of letters named ‘must at least open’ for an envelope of bone white parchment with a black wax seal and his name written in over-elaborate cursive at the back.

Breaking it, he read through the letter, looking for a dress code which Harry saw as ‘over the top formal and wizarding’. So he made his decision. 

The next evening, calling in his appointment at the prestigious wizarding robes shop of Milan, located in Wizarding Centro Storico di Italia, he followed a handsome man with emerald eyes, similar to his own, to meet _Adriano Capone,_ tall, venta black eyes and moist rosy lips, who eyed Harry with such intense luscious gaze that Harry stopped breathing for a solid minute and greeted the man with a breathy “Hello.” The man was bilingual, so he saved himself the embarrassment of his faulty Italian accent. 

As customary of luxury shopping, he was given a fine glass of local wine that tinted his lips and made flavours burst on his tongue. He was asked what event he was attending, and at the mention of Malfoy’s name, clapping rang out as the man looked over him with a satisfied smirk and proceeded with suggestions. After hours of fitting and dancing around flamboyant flirting, he portkeyed home and unshrinked the few matte black boxes and left them at the foot of the door as he stumbled on unstable legs towards his chester sofa. Melting into it like liquid, he licked his lips that tasted like honey and man, grinning at the memory of a nimble body and the magical tattoo of snakes and flowers that tickled against his skin. 

The night was young and the shag was mind blowing. It was near enough if he was to spend a year under the tutelage of Lucius Malfoy, living under the same roof. No matter how big the roof of the Malfoy Manor, it gave him goosebumps just thinking of shagging anyone under it. 

Thus, how Harry ended up discreetly looking at said man from an unbusy corner of the ball room, grand with its high ceiling and huge crystal chandeliers. Decoration wild with bouquets of flowers and ice statues in shapes of stags and does, bears and foxes around which floated trays of snacks and drinks.

Wearing his best robes, also a mixture of silk and wool of highest quality in dark forest green with golden embroidery of snakes and peonies and hyacinths - he flushed at the memory of Adriano - around the sleeves, lapel and the bottom hems of the back. 

The ballroom was two thirds full with members of high standing, who looked so elegant and poised, hiding their arrogance and flaunting. Harry met with some families during his work, and their comport made Malfoys seem humble. Some Ministry and Wizengamot members, mostly gentlemen and their lovely ladies in their fifties or hundreds, except a select few that strolled from one group of peers to another with grace and force of a man on a mission. Such as young Zabinis and Parkinsons and Bulstrodes and Notts. One trying to out win the other with style and sophisticated conversations. 

A well strategised toast here and there, a lift of the champagne glass to the heavens and the dead, a man brushing his hand against the wrist of a lady who either retreated with an excuse of modesty or answered with a flutter of lashes. 

Harry couldn’t help hide his laugh at some of them. The past few years had taught Harry a decent amount of noble grandeur. Waltz, ball dancing, when to bow and when to shake hands, with whom to talk, when to bring a small gift… it was a key to good etiquette, but all the conversations and gatherings he partook in helped him get an understanding of a Slytherin mind. It was easy, that was the original plan of the Hogwarts hat, after all. But some of it put theatres to shame.

With the clinking of his leather shoes he walked past one enormous arrangement of Snowdrops and Winter berries, and another of Pussy Willows and English Primroses, until he had Lucius Malfoy closer within his sight. Classic composition of Paganini and supporting instruments made up the appropriate mood and he appreciated the conservation of tradition and culture within the Wizarding World. Strings playing arousing melodies that compelled you to reach out to the nearest partner together be carried away in spirit.

Lucius Malfoy was moving away from the staircase to talk to Narcissa’s current husband. Harry squinted and thought they made up an imposing pair. Mr. Black was a stoic but friendly man in his thirties who could battle Narcissa with his looks. And Malfoy… well, Malfoy looked handsome and compelling, if he were to look at him objectively. With his hair longer than he remembered, he entranced the audience like a Veela. Harry felt a tap on his shoulder and turned sideways to see a woman, breathtaking in her emerald attire. White and black hair highlighting her sharp cheekbones, very similar to Andromedas.

“Mrs. Black! How lovely to see you, you look absolutely charming,” Harry’s brows rose in surprise but he smiled and took to greet her with a smooth bow at his hips and a kiss on her knuckles. “We match!” he added, straightening up and pointing to his dress robes and hers in good humour.

Narcissa smiled in broad amusement, patting Harry’s shoulder. “Good evening, Mr. Potter. Yes, we do, perhaps we should share a dance to celebrate the occasion. What do you say? We will look a lovely pair.” she held out her hand for him to take. All dominance of a proper Black, reminding him of Orion. Harry had animated conversations with Sirius’s father, who one day appeared in the once empty portrait of the sitting room. They shared a strange relationship, but Orion, unlike his wife, Walburga, extended his protection and care to Harry, even telling him how to burn the screaming portrait without having to use Fiendfyre, when Harry’s patience was wearing thin. Their connection was steadily growing with reverence. Orion once ordered Kreacher to bring Harry some chocolate, when he came home exhausted and cold after battling a few hundred Dementors. It was a memorable moment.

It was due Orion, that Mrs. Black and Harry habitually exchanged letters. “If we have eyes on us, it will be all you, Mrs. Black,” Harry rested his glass on a nearby table and reached for her hand, maintaining proper distance, cradling the soft palm in his. Together they stepped into the Waltz, joining the echoes of heeled shoes, carried by violin and flutes.

“I must say, Harry,” he felt the breath of his name in his ear as Mrs. Black leaned closer, “I’m quite surprised with your choice of company you are pursuing this evening,” he spun them twice in quick succession, shying away from the lace clad chest that was a bit too close to his. “He is rather charming, not to mention how attentive he is in bed,” Harry thought about what she said and quickly his breath hitched. His mouth agape, eyes wide. Again, he thought the world was going mad.

“Surely you don’t think I’m attracted to Mr. Malfoy?” he said in a breath. “I’m merely trying to find the right moment to approach to ask him a question, is all,” their robes intervened in shades of green as he spun them again and let go of his hold on her waist for a single twirl. Making use of the distance to take a deep breath and puff out his chest. He couldn’t subjectively think of the man’s beauty. In the eyes of Harry, which did look subjectively at men and women in abandon, Malfoy was a blurred image.

“Oh? Then I apologise for my misunderstanding. Usually I don’t mistake reading one's eyes. They speak volumes, as they say,” they kept on dancing and twirling and spinning. Mrs. Black didn’t know well enough his interest in men to make such assumptions, she must’ve caught him thinking of Adriano, his eyes softened at the memory. 

Mrs. Black still looked amused and all knowing, but he faced away from her bright gaze for a second and noticed how many guests were looking at them. Ladies whispering in groups and gentlemen with tilted heads. He looked back and bit his lip. 

“What about you, Narcissa? I don’t think I’ve seen you dance with your husband yet,” 

“I decided to have my first dance with a handsome young man tonight, of course.” _Of course_. He failed to hide his chuckle. 

“I’m honoured to have mine with a stunning woman,” he said in turn, “but I’m afraid the waltz is ending and I do need to talk to Mr. Malfoy soon before we’re both too tipsy,” he took a step back and placed a kiss on her knuckles again, ending the dance with a tilt of his head, his hair brushing his eyelashes, making him blink a few. “I hope you find time to come by Grammauld this weekend for tea. I might be absent for a year there depending on how this evening goes, and I’ll bake,” he said with a grin. He was ready to step completely away but Mrs. Black gripped his hand. 

“Why don’t we go together, I’ll whisk away my husband for a second dance and you may have all of your time with Lucius,” Mrs. Black winked at him and took hold of his arm as she pulled him to walk together towards the men who, Harry startled and faltered in his step, were already facing them. “And of course I’ll come by this Sunday, I do love your pastries.”

“Excellent!” Harry smiled.

Lucius Malfoy looked on as they approached, his spine as straight as the cane he was holding loosely but body relaxed. He narrowed his eyes and greeted him with a polite nod and a smile he used for special members of society he put in the same box as Mr. Voldemort-isn't-back-Fudge, who still kept sending him letters on Hogwarts Battle anniversary with apologies of his distrust and gratitude.

Whereas his companion, Mr. Black stood with shoulders so wide that you could rest your head on, high nose and sharp as a whip eyes, as stiff in his posture as a statue. Whom he greeted much warmly.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Black. I hope you’ve no more problems with the Cup of Curses from your vaults,” he started the conversation to speed through the awkward moment of who would address who first., shuddering at the memory of nasty curses the innocent looking goblet contained. Learning not to trust golden goblets with shining sapphires and other jewels.

“No, Mr. Potter, all thanks to your quick thinking. You have enjoyed the first dance with Narcissa, I presume?” Mr. Black looked at his wife with a twist of his lips. Harry frowned at the tone. 

“Now, now, darling, I was just about to drag you away from dear Lucius here for a second dance. What do you say?” She swiftly moved towards the man and all it took Mr. Black to go was an assertive snog and she had all of his attention. “Quit being so possessive, he’s twenty years younger than you, darling,” he heard the hushed voice from the couple as they walked away. “Exactly! What women wouldn’t want a young competent man...savior...head of family…” Harry squirmed and pursed his lips to contain the bubbling laughter. Handsomeness such as Mr. Black’s surely couldn’t birth such jealousy, Harry thought.

A few minutes of silence to calm himself, he turned to face the man he had to woo into accepting his offer. The man was unapproachable as his memories reminded him of the rare Wizengamot sessions Harry appeared in. The Malfoy seat was right next to the Black seat in the not so big chamber. The casual glances of irritation that marred Mafloy and the unseen threat of a wand pointing in Harry’s direction every time Harry voted against one of his propositions that didgn’t get approved was enough to solidify the utter unease between them. Harry took the silent threats in stride, thinking if things were to get serious, he would try hissing at the snakehead which decorated the wand. Not a head as it had been during the war, but a fully-bodied thin silver snake wrapped around the handle. 

“Mr. Malfoy, it’s good to see you too, I hope you are having a lovely evening as well,” Said Harry amenably. The man just grabbed another champagne glass from a passing silver tray and looked at him for a second too short before facing away. 

“Mr. Potter.” 

_Is that all?_ “I actually wanted to speak to you regarding an official matter concerning the Ministry and myself directly,” If there was no music around, the silence from the man would have eaten him up in one big swallow. He felt himself being drowned in acid. “Mr. Malfoy?” he urged, shifting his weight from the right leg to the left.

The man looked at him, eyes lidded and with champagne glass at his mouth, sipping and savouring the remains off of his lips. Harry hoped lack of breathing would hold him back from breaking the gaze and looking lower. Suddenly his opinion on subjectivity and objectivity of beauty was challenged with strong arguments.

He raised his eyebrow in another _‘Mr. Malfoy?’_ and was sure this time would get a reply but a tap and a “Harry! Love!” made him turn and face Adriano.

“A-Adriano! Wow, bloody hell, you look amazing!” Surprised but with bubbling happiness, Harry gripped both of his arms and looked him down and up at the white dress robes covered in forest green embroidery. _Bloody Merlin, he looks gorgeous in white_. Harry trailed his hand down one arm and turned back to Malfoy to introduce him. 

“Mr. Malfoy, this is Ad-”

“ _Signore Capone_ , I’m glad you made it to the ball,” Malfoy nodded with a complete change of face, waving a hand for a tray of drinks to come floating their way. His eyes no longer on Harry. “I believe your father is recovering well? I had hoped he would come today, to properly thank him for the splendid robes he sent my son and I,” 

“Ah! My father will recover in no time. He would be on his feet even if death came knocking at his door!” A boisterous laugh and the atmosphere seemed to change for the two. No longer silent and tense and lighter with flowing conversation. “How is dear Draco? It’s been a while since he visited me in Milano,” With a crack of a whip, his memory of a night well spent and fondness for a particular sexy and sweet and boyish _Adriano_ , was bitter and sickening. _No, no, no, no, no…_

Harry let go of his arm and stood straighter, reminding himself to breathe, eyes moving between the two. “I didn’t know you and Draco knew each other,” he said with a sudden tightness in his throat. 

“Why, Harry, love, of course I do! You came to the best tailor in Europe,” Adriano told him as if Harry was disregarding the reputation of his brand by asking such a question. “Draco is a favourite client of mine! It’s always a pleasure to dress up such a gorgeous body,” Harry coughed twice into his fist to unclog his throat. His stomach churning. “Well then…” he didn’t know what else to say. Adriano was oblivious.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you don’t mind I would like to take Harry for a dance,” Adriano took hold of his hand, ready to take him away for a dance Harry wasn’t at all keen on, but Malfoy stepped forward and stopped him. 

“Actually, I already asked Mr. Potter for a dance before you interrupted, I’m afraid, _Signore Capone._ ” Malfoy stepped between them both and took hold of his left hand, breaking the uncomfortable sensation that took hold of him and led him away with long strides towards the dozen dancing guests. 

“I doubt Adriano interrupted anything, if you ignoring me counts as conversation, Mr. Malfoy,” 

“Now, don’t be a poor sport, Potter and follow my lead,”

A big hand landed on Harry’s waist and pushed him toward a chest adorned in heavy silk and wool brocade, his personal space disregarded with ease. A piece of metal dug into his back which he guessed was Malfoy’s walking stick and wand. Harry’s cheeks heated and he tightened the grip on Malfoys other hand, remembering upon the start of another round of slow waltz and Malfoy taking the first step forward that he hadn't danced with enough leading men to remember how to follow. “Uh, it’s been a while since I was led,” he muttered, barely missing stepping on Malfoys leather shoe. 

“If I knew you to be horrid at it, you wouldn’t be anywhere near the dance floor with me. Relax and let your body flow,” Malfoy spun him around, Harry’s left hand softly placed on the chest. And what beautiful brocades! Patterns Invisible from afar. Harry tilted his head up to see Malfoy once again looking at him with the same expression as before. If he was so uninterested in being around Harry, why did he bring him out to dance anyway? Harry grit his jaw, his next spin so forced his dress robes brushed against the hems of a puffy dress of another dancer.

“Well? Why drag me out here?” he asked. 

“I believe you are the one who wanted to speak of an official matter? Is that not so?” It was discomforting to be whisked around in the hands of a man head-taller than him, who was surely plotting something in that head of his. The aroma of musky sandalwood cologne made his head spin. Harry knew it to be charmed and spelled, with how his muscles lulled and blood sang as if led by a pied piper. 

Harry decided to get on with it. If not to avoid beating around the bush, then to get out of this hold and avoid possible abduction. “Will you, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, do the honour of becoming my Master in Dark Arts?” The air was a tad warmer than before. He kept his gaze locked, not noticing how after minutes, his feet glided with finesse and danced around with Malfoy as if the discomfort wasn’t present.

“Oh?” Lucius looked down at Harry with interest. Severus had spilled how Potter came to him asking to be taught, which, of course, Severus brusquely declined. The man was done with teaching anymore ‘brats’ as he so put it, especially one Harry Potter, who had brought on a chronic headache. Lucius laughed but wondered what he would say if Potter was to come to him. He was aware of the number of wizards and witches who officially qualified as Masters of Dark Arts, and, to his disappointment of wizarding society and personal pleasure that he was one such Master, it was less than the number of his vaults. That evening they had a whole bottle of whiskey. He pulled the younger man, leaning down to his mess of a hair. “And why, pray tell, did you come to me with such an unusual request for Harry Potter?”

Harry blinked and arched his back, face leaning away from Malfoy. He was so close to the warmth of a solid chest, yet Harry cared less and less as they moved together, not against eachother for the sake of decency. Malfoy was the last choice. When Snape so kindly declined him, he imagined what it would be like to live in Malfoy Manor and be tutored by Malfoy. Not to mention the side benefits of having to see Malfoy junior and his friends. With some he got along with fine, like Theo and Blaise, but as a childhood group combined, nasty habits rebirthed.

And sex, of course. Harry nearly gagged, mind falling back on Adriano. _Of course_ Draco was a good client of his. And how stupid was he for starting to think fond of the man. He was so striking in his pleasure, twisting and grinding so slowly and openly, Harry had never made the voices he made with any other partner. He tried to let go of the pressure around his chest but the idea of seeing him again, hair messy and cheeks rosy, sashaying down the hallways of Malfoy Manor in silken robe, it made him want to step away from Malfoy and this manipulative charade. Blinking a few times to gather himself. Malfoy most likely regarded him as a pest to his aristocratic wizarding life and plans of conquest. 

The air suddenly felt stifled and he wondered why he was letting Malfoy lead him into a dance, standing so close and holding hands, for Godric's sake. Harry should’ve insisted more on Snape. At least they had their relationship and regards of one another figured out as plain as the clear mediterrenean sky.

“Mr. Potter, whatever it is that mind of yours conjured, burn it away. If it’s about Mr. Capone, then rest assured. My son and he fucked on more than a few occasions, but they never meet outside Italy,” 

Harry’s eyes widened and lost focus as he scoffed at the audacity of him mentioning it in the open, and Merlin, was he that obvious? He dismissed his desire to move away, run to Snape and offer ‘anything in return’ to that man, as dangerous as it was to offer _anything_ to _anyone_ at all, especially being who he was. “Why, thank you for your reassurance, Mr. Malfoy. I’m glad to know that I won’t have to see him for breakfast at Malfoy Manor fucked to the heavens by your son.” he shot back, rolling his shoulders to relax into the hold once more. More of the cologne invading his belly.

Under his hand, he felt vibrations of oncoming laughter. Harry stared, more in surprise of getting to hear it for the first time. “Putting aside Draco’s ability to leave his sex partners in Heaven, Potter, I do want to hear an answer,”

“Aren’t you a renowned Master of Dark Arts? You wouldn't decline if I told you this is a direct wish of Minister Shacklebolt that I apprentice under the best?” 

“Ah, I see, I see,” Lucius looked away for a moment, shaking his head. “As a matter of fact I am, quite knowledgeable in the Art.” he turned back to face the young man. Black curls of hair stuck out in random directions, less of a nest and more in purposefully curled locks. Harry Potter was the bane of the last two decades of his life. The boy came out alive out of the war not merely due his Gryffindor qualities and knowledge of magic. He wasn’t ambitious in his studies at Hogwarts, and if not for his friends and Dark Lord’s order not to harm or kill the boy, he would’ve long been dead. Alas, fate is a formidable thing. 

Despite it, his progress and the new spark of determination he heard of from loud mouths and conversations during his incarceration, and later from many sources and his own query, he was delighted to know the boy had grown. As had his magical core. Potter had polished himself into a wizard respected by many in his social circle, to his surprise and inconvenience. And looking at the Potter now, dancing with fresh grace, he could picture what he could mold the boy into. And the end result posed a delicious picture indeed. 

This time, the silence wasn’t as stifling but the cologne was as dizzying. Malfoy held him closer, at which Harry blushed, his mouth opening for intake of breaths. The waltz moved on and each step they took together, Harry let his head rest against luxury and forget it, until the sounds lowered. Then Malfoy spoke up and Harry faltered a single step when his nose brushed against Malfoy’s chin when he looked up.

“I, Lucius Malfoy, accept to take up Harry James Potter as my apprentice and relay the knowledge of Dark Arts.” Malfoy said with a cocky smile. The instruments stopped and Malfoy stepped away, pullings Harry’s knuckles up to his lips and giving them a quick kiss. “This will be a cheerful year for us, Harry, await a letter with instructions on the proceedings tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of the evening,”

His hand felt numb and tingly. _What? Wait a second_. “Wait! Mr. Malfoy!” 

He gaped and stared at the back of Malfoy’s robes. _The damn robes_ . With every step the man took away, the scent abandoned Harry. His mind clearing of the daze it was in. _The bloody puerblood colognes!_

Surely there had to be more questions and more persuading or on his part. But the man was already conversing with another guest. He sighed and searched for the bar. Moet & Chandon won’t do it, he needed a solid forty percent drink to soothe his clenching stomach. At least the night didn’t end in a rejection as abrupt as Snape’s was. He couldn’t possibly imagine having daily visits to Azkaban and receiving tutelage from one sadistic, toad-faced bitch.

He thanked the barman and took a generous gulp.


	2. Of Wicked Saints

Not for the first time, Harry was grateful for the existence of potions. It would be a right disaster if he were to come crawling to Malfoy Manor with his head pounding in on him and stomach rolling at the sight of food. And he had to pack his things and be moved before six o’clock this evening, ready to have dinner with the Malfoys at seven, with proper evening robes, of course. 

It was Monday, the favoured day of the Goddess of the moon. And Harry woke up to a great black owl staring at him with more intensity than an owl should possess. Nothing about the Malfoys was basic. Their owl looked like it knew how to wield a wand of its own and groomed its feathers with cleaning charms and enhanced its shine with beauty incantations. Or maybe Harry needed a second hangover potion. 

Yesterday was as fulfilling as any other Sunday at the burrow was. With a visit from Narcissa and an afternoon chatting about this and that. Harry didn’t forget to clarify her assumption that he had a fancy for Lucius Malfoy, but Narcissa still laughed. They ate his home baked Treacle tart and shared commentaries on his first try at the Bakewell pudding. Then Harry left for a night out with Ron, Seamus, Neville and his other Gryffindor mates. Getting pissed over loud conversation and bets on which team was to win the local Quidditch Cup, followed by a sweaty time later with Seamus _and_ Dean and burning passion.

Harry swore aloud in a hearty “Bollocks!!” that echoed through the empty house, as he walked down the stairs with his luggage and two boxes of personal possessions floating behind. He sat for a quick cup of tea and good luck in the sitting room, before departing The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, whose furniture was covered in white cotton cloths, for a full three hundred and sixty five days. The place reminded him of muggle horror movies, featuring abandoned hotel rooms, where the furniture was also covered with cloth. Kreacher may remain here and look after the house, but without a wizard's soul around, it felt cold and dead. Perhaps more dead than the cut off heads of past house elves, which Harry moved to Kreacher's room in the kitchens and had expanded with wizard space. After all, it was the least he could do for the lonely creature.

“Take me with you,” the portrait of Orion Black said in a gravelly voice. Harry stared, surprised. “You are part of the house. How do you expect me to take you with me?” 

“Come here,” 

Harry abandoned his tea and moved to stand in front of the fireplace, looking up with a frown. A few moments of silence followed.

“I want you to have full guardianship of the Black family line,” A breath forcefully escaped Harry and he gaped at Orion with eyes as wide as when he was told he had to die to save the world. He thought over it, though his heart was pounding louder than thoughts.

“You can’t mean that. Narcissa is still a living Black and she has more rights to hold the title of the head of family than I do, obviously. I’m a Potter! By blood and name!” he exclaimed. 

“Narcissa and I talked. She didn’t disagree,” the face in the portrait looked on. “I doubted my son when he passed the house onto you, I admit, yet I must say you quickly proved yourself to be a respectable wizard, Harry. Have this house along with my blood line, wear the Black ring and bring this house prosperity,” Such words held magic, unbreakable when a decision was made. 

“I-” Harry’s tongue was tied. He looked on at the face that was stern and old with experience. His chest expanded so much with something hot. “I-I’m honoured, Mr. Black.” he stuttered. “Honestly, Merlin,” he took a few deep breaths, a sudden laugh escaping him. _Merlin, this was approval._ Harry thought. _Approval from Sirius dad_. 

Tears burst from his eyes and they were happy tears, the happiest this house has seen in it’s long history of family. “Thank you so much,” he rushed to say with a smile as wide as the skies. Even the frames seemed to darken with the scowl plastered on Orion's face.

“Salazar! Remove those tears and quickly put on the ring.” He waved a hand around, as if he wanted to wipe the tears away himself, if not with a handkerchief. “It’s right here, below my portrait,” 

Harry quickly wiped his tears with the hems of his shirt, moving towards the fireplace and picking up the Black family ring, gold to show status, adorned with delicate carvings and a bold letter _B_ on top. He instantly fell in love with it. His favourite letter of the alphabet being ‘B’, if anyone asked. 

“I thought it was lost,” he mumbled, inspecting the ring. It was his new treasure. Not the gold it was made of, but what stood behind it. Harry would remember this moment forever. He had never felt so warm in this house, the heat almost scorching and only those who knew to appreciate it would be able to survive it.

 _It was Acceptance_. Some more tears stained his cheeks at the thought. Now, he belonged in this house… And was officially part of a family even though it was in the form of a portrait of one Orion Black. This was the father of his godfather, whose heart he somehow managed to soften, if not the aristocratic demeanour. It didn’t help that the painter used all kinds of paints that were definitely expensive. And the robes were of the highest calibre, worthy to be worn by a member of the ancient pureblood family.

“Put it on, on your middle finger,” Orion urged. And Harry really wanted to see it there, so he slid the cold ring on. It immediately shrunk in size and it felt weightless and nonexistent when he clenched his hand and moved it this way and that. He had to see it from all of the angles. 

“Merlin…” he was happy. So so happy. He felt reluctant to leave for a year from the house which was now his home. _His real home!_ He giggled and caught a small smile, which was a rarity, on Orion's face. 

“What were you saying about me taking you?” Harry asked.

“The house is part of the family. You may not be of Black blood, but now you are a Black. Kreacher will deliver the portrait to the rooms you will be staying at. Some change of scenery would do well,” 

The clock clanged ‘Time for departure’ and Harry said a quick ‘Thanks!’ to Kreacher who was already in charge of his luggage and stood near the doorway. With a snap of his long, nimble fingers, the portrait was flying by Harry - now empty, as Harry remembered Orions’s tales of voyages and his sea sickness -, a bit wobbly in the air but never falling, and as they stepped out of the door, they all apparated from the porch. 

~~~

As their feet touched the stoned ground before the elaborate gates of Malfoy Manor, despite the darkness that seemed to haunt the place, the view of the countryside greenery was reinvigorating. Compared to the sounds of beeping cars and dog barks that on occasion still managed to penetrate the wards of House of Black, this place was ghost-quiet, minus the random squawking of the peacocks and gathered rustling of dozens upon dozens of trees. The tall wall of bushes on either side of him, always reminded him of the labyrinth. 

Harry relaxed his body but drew a wand nonetheless at the approaching figure. 

“Potter! I was shocked when father made me come and get you out here,” the gates didn’t open and Harry grit his teeth. 

“Malfoy, how good to see you. Looks like we are going to be roommates,” Harry stepped up front, a polite smile appearing almost automatically. “I’ve always wondered if we would room together had I accepted the hats first choice, but looks like the world works miracles,” he huffed.

“What are you on about? I thought my father was the only mad one but I’m having second thoughts listening to you spill shite,” Malfoy waved his wand and the gates opened with a squeak of antiquity. Harry felt his eyes might roll and never face the world again, but stepped forward and started walking past Malfoy. Kreacher trailing behind by his feet and the rest of his things floating. 

“You brought a family portrait? Definitely not one of your own. Anyone I know?” Malfoy caught up, walking beside Harry, just to show his snicker. 

“The portrait?” Harry lifted a hand to point. “He is, in fact, my family,” he made sure to wave his hand in extravagance, in an obvious show of his new title.

“Is that-?” Harry turned to Malfoy with a smug expression adoring his features. Suddenly his hand was gripped in an iron fist with Malfoy staring at the ring. Harry laughed. “From hate to holding hands? You better let go if you’re not going to be kissing it any moment now,” 

Malfoy looked at a loss for words only for a moment, a moment not long enough for Harry to examine for better memory. Then Malfoy let go, Harry’s hand throbbing from pain. “This is disgraceful, Potter, even for you. Wearing what isn’t yours by right!” Malfoy’s voice rose and rose with every single word, finishing in a shout and a stomp of his foot. 

They were approaching the entrance, a huge door with engravings of wood. Harry looked at Malfoy, his smugness vanishing almost as quickly as being replaced with anger as his hand tightened around the wood of his wand. But before any words could be said, Kreacher stood beside Harry with his arm raised. He looked twenty years younger. Not longer was his back slouching and his ears drooping. He exuded raw power and held himself proud to protect the name of one Harry Potter, who he served as he served his past Mistresses and Masters.

“Harry Potter is a Black! And Kreacher will injure wizards and witches who hurt Master Harry!” 

Harry stood rock-still, looking at Kreacher. _Had he really just said that?_ Malfoy was eyeing the elf with eyes wide, mouth agape, and laughter followed. The kind of laughter that made the weak look down and powerful to laugh along. Though it seemed Kreachers threat was not something to be easily dismissed as many wizards and witches knew. Malfoy simply stared a little longer at the poor elf and turned to walk into the house in big strides to get away, ignoring Harry completely. 

They followed, Harry feeling his insides becoming mushier with each step as Kreacher walked beside him. The Manor, without the colourful decorations of grand balls and galas, looked almost plain. The dimness enhanced by dark furniture and minimality. Harry wondered if Narcissa had decorated a part of it when she lived here. It looked awfully familiar. Harry shivered from the cold that slowly seeped beyond his skin, which, however, was unfamiliar and very unwelcome.

He followed the clicking echoes of shoes up the ‘wide enough to fit a table of twenty’ staircase, somewhere to the left, and stepping into a long hallway. He walked, looking at the numerous portraits donned in black and gold frames on both walls, some sleeping, unmoving and others burning his own frame into memory, chatting in low murmurs and whispers. Shadows danced from round bulbs of light that hung on the walls, just as Malfoy abruptly stopped and knocked on a door that highlighted the hallway with its haunting design. 

Malfoy, still ignoring Harry, walked in first and left the door open. He sighed, weary of their future run-ins and a full year of Breakfasts, Luncheons and Dinners they would undoubtedly have to sit through together. He walked in and glimpsed Malfoy, junior, that is, whispering in the ear of Mr. Malfoy with a glare turned on him. 

Standing tall was more difficult under scrutiny than what the books on etiquette and body language had said. But he tried, as he straightened his spine and held his hand loosely behind his back. The study was huge, almost the size of the drawing room at home, big windows with weighty curtains in burgundy, held open with a twisted silken rope. Ceiling-high antique but well preserved shelves constituting a wall and the other decorated with a leather sofa and a crystal trolley full of alcoholic drinks kept in glass containers. A fireplace of grey marble with onburning fire, helped to remove the cold that seemed to be stuck to Harry like an old friend.

“You should know better, Draco,” Harry heard the unhidden whisper of Mr. Malfoy. “We are born into the title or are gifted it, on rare occasions. Now go and show Mr. Potter’s elf where he will be staying,” 

Draco stared at his father, blood bubbling and skin sweating in cold. Not for a second believing Potter was gifted the title of Black. It was definitely not his Mother, though with every step he took to leave the study, he began to doubt. He let the door shut behind him and scowled at as many faces he could find. “Winky!” he shouted. “Show this elf Potter’s rooms!” Nearly kicking the elf in his stride as it appeared in front of him out of thin air, he went to write a letter.

Harry Potter stood quietly waiting to be welcomed. With the bit of scrutiny he received from the lord of the Manor, it suddenly dawned on him that he was in a Snake’s pit with one of the darkest wizards in all of Britain. He expected to be nodded at and called forward to sit on one of the available armchairs in front of the mahogany desk, like Snape did on many occasions back at Hogwarts, but then another realisation, he was a student now. And this did happen in exactly that order. “Sit down, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy said and timbers rose in the fireplace as Harry moved. 

“A drink?” although Harry wanted to decline, he caught onto the tone and understood it wasn’t a question. Malfoy was already standing and within a few more moments of silence, an elegant glass of Whiskey was passed into his hand with a clink of the ice-cubes. “Your journey was well?” Harry was asked despite the non necessity of such wanton questions. The journey lasted only a few minutes. Though pleasantries went both ways, so Harry answered with a lingering taste of alcohol and amusement. “Yes, it was rather quick, thank you,”

Malfoy stood in front of him, leaning against the edge of the table, as if the conversations they were to have would be over quickly. “Mr. Potter, I do want to emphasise our poor relationship and would like to offer ways we could improve it for the sake of a better co-living for the next year. Draco has told me plenty of you, but had I looked at you through the eyes of my son, I would’ve missed this opportunity to polish you from a rough diamond,”

And had Harry thought that he would be receiving compliments from one such _diamond_ he would have hung himself in disbelief. Whiskey was a luxury for moments such as these, when a person encountered themselves in a very dreamy situation with an unusual wizard, who, as Harry remembered the sense of warming presence the body and cologne provided him, was now as handsome as ever. And, who, stood with authority in casual dress robes meant for business conducted from home. Harry had to tilt his head somewhat to face him.

It was becoming rather warm and Harry blamed it on the whiskey, or Narcissa, who had teasingly made implications and told him her share about _Lucius_ , as if they were two maidens chatting over tea about the new notorious gentleman of town. They _were_ chatting over tea, but Harry didn’t consider himself a maiden. He did his share of talking and musing over handsome men and ladies of all kinds but a Malfoy seemed a territory too sacred to step into. 

Looking at Malfoy his body warmed further. The lidded eyes that stared him down brought forth memories of dancing and strong chest and heady cologne. “Have you been flirting with me?” Harry suddenly blurted and flushed at the momentary lapse in control. 

“Do you wish to be flirted with?” was the quick reply. And Harry had to let go of the glass so as not to drop it. The scrutiny turned into fierce ogling and Harry was surprised to feel his hands tremble a little. Was it because Malfoy was older? To have someone with experience acknowledge you as more than a simple man in his twenties who happened to have figured out life a bit earlier than normal? 

Harry felt cornered like a deer about to be shot. “No, no, I don’t think I want to,” he tried to be quick in his reply too. But yet again, Malfoy was sharp and much quicker. “You don’t think...or are you sure?” with two strides Malfoy had made him tremble in the armchair that resembled a cage. 

“Ah, I-” Harry breathed quickly. He wasn’t ready for this game and this was turning out to be a big mistake but what if? So many ‘what ifs’ filled his mind and he had to lick his dry lips to think. What if Narcissa was right about him? What if he submit to his desires? What if he now sunk to the floor and nuzzled into Malfoy’s crotch? What if, what if, what if!

He was melting like chocolate in summer heat and it felt so good, he wanted and wanted and wanted so much to realise so many of ‘what ifs’ and when he met Malfoy’s smirk and cold eyes staring with mirth at his trembling and skin that was flushed from his collarbones to reddened cheeks, it was like surfacing from ice cold water to satisfy starved lungs with air so frosty he was more disoriented than he cared to believe. “What the fuck did you put in that bloody Whiskey?” he nearly shouted, trying to get up but with legs and arms paralysed, it was the beginning of mounting panic.

Malfoy slowly reached into a secret pocket inside his robe and retrieved a slim blood-red vial that resembled an icicle. Pointy in shape and warned to be venomous in contents. Forgetting the ‘what ifs’ that poisoned his mind moments ago, a dozen newer ‘what ifs’ made him fear how he was at mercy, being left with one freedom that would make little difference in a world which moved and moved. 

“As I said, Mr. Potter, I would like to make amends,” Malfoy said in satisfaction of the events.

“You must be living on another bloody planet for that then!” veins aglow, he seethed with anger. Yet, as Malfoy removed the glass stopper from the small vial in his hands and knelt down in front of Harry, he couldn’t stop the welling of tears that stained his eyelashes at the grand loss of control. “No no no, you’re not making me take that,” he rushed his words, head leaning away and mind begging Merlin for mercy when a hand was placed on his thigh. 

“Look at me, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy’s voice barely reached his ears and Harry wondered if he was about to faint. But he couldn’t of course, then he would surely be doomed. He didn’t want to look anywhere but at the far shelf and the leather-bound books it contained, but one was foolish to disobey a Malfoy lord, who always got what he wanted. Because Harry had no other choice but to look when Malfoy stood up and pushed Harry’s legs apart, wider than enough to stand between them and Harry felt the leather seat dip as Malfoy’s knees pushed at his inner thighs, Harry’s legs rising a bit, and rested there with Mafloy’s full weight. Harry was powerless and the position emphasised his exposure. 

He looked up with renewed panic, but was completely left dumbstruck when Malfoy gulped down the contents of the vial with a quick jerk of his head and a bob of his protruding Adam's apple, then tucking the vial back where it came from.

Harry’s blood pounded in his veins, confusion numbing his body further. Harry thought he wasn’t prepared for the game he found himself being a participant of, but he starved to know the rules for the sake of twisting it so he was the Queen, with more choices, and to tug away the rug Malfoy was standing on. Malfoy’s pale face gained some colour with rosy hues and he supported himself with one arm on the backrest of the seat behind Harry, the other circling around Harry’s waist. Silence there may be, but the vibration of ragged breaths against his chin and neck was enough for the screams in his head to increase in volume.

The eyes that looked so icy before now beckoned him in enticement and Harry felt a pull into which he slipped like a water droplet into a still pond. It was life that he saw in those eyes. So much darkness and so little light, it made Harry mourn in loss and sorrow punctured like a needle into skin. There was so much sadness that Harry would feel his stinging eyes from bitter tears much later when he would wake up from this madness. But passion too. Passion for greatness and unyielding ambition.

If this was the depth he found in those icy eyes, he wondered if his own would look as dark. It kept going, on and on. These were memories. The colours of time that made up Lucius Malfoy. Despite the dimness of this soul, he felt embraced within it and it wound’t be his task to decide whether it was forgiveness or ridiculousness that made him want to stay here for a while longer. 

He felt a presence inside him. Lucius was looking so deep and he felt on display. Like in many of his darker fantasies where he would push and be pushed, bind and be bound, he felt the same forbidden spark in Lucius and they exploded together. His memories, thoughts, secrets, everything that made him Harry Potter, was being seen. He should feel angry, but this was an exchange and Harry could see everything too. 

Malfoy’s childhood which resembled a golden apple, rotten on the inside, his youth a starving wolf for knowledge and recognition, his desires that run deeper and darker, a bright vestige full of sex and black robes and masks that brought fear… and Harry _felt_ it all, he _felt_ Lucius and what he did. But as he dived deeper, some things he saw made him want to run as far as he could run, but he couldn’t get away and Harry was poisoned with the images that seeped into his skin in the form of a handsome Tom Riddle that made Lucius suck on his cock, memories upon memories of Riddle whispering obscenities and flashes of diabolic red and lustful eyes and of him pounding into Lucius with bloodied hands in white hair… _I could never wash the blood away._

Harry couldn’t breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to see your comments and reviews!
> 
> This story won't be too long. Possibly 4-7 chapters.


End file.
